第48章

MAGGIE AND MARTIN

That moment in her bedroom altered for Maggie the course of all her future life.She had never before been, consciously, a rebel; she had, only a week before, almost acquiesced in the thought that she would remain in her aunts' house for the rest of her days; now Mr.

Magnus, the Warlocks, and her new dress had combined to fire her determination.She saw, quite suddenly, that she must escape at the first possible moment.

The house that had been until now the refuge into which she had escaped became the jumping-off place for her new adventure.

Until now the things in the house had been there to receive her as one of themselves; from this moment they were there to prevent, if possible, her release.She felt everything instantly hostile.They all--Thomas the cat, Edward the parrot, the very sofas and chairs and cushions--were determined not to let her go.

She saw, more than ever before, that her aunts were preparing some religious trap for her.They were very quiet about it; they did not urge her or bully her, but the subtle, silent influence went on so that the very stair-carpet, the very scuttles that held the coal, became secret messengers to hale her into the chapel and shut her in there for ever.After her first visit there the chapel became a nightmare to her--because, at once, she had felt its power.She had known--she had always known and it had not needed Mr.Magnus to tell her--that there was something in this religion--yes, even in the wretched dirt and disorder of her father's soul--but with that realisation that there was indeed something, had come also the resolved conviction that life could not be happy, simple, successful unless one broke from that power utterly, refused its dictates, gave no hearing to its messages, surrendered nothing--absolutely nothing--to its influence.Had not some one said to her once, or was it not in her little red A Kempis, that "once caught one might never escape again"?

She would prove that, in her own struggle and independence, to be untrue.The chapel should not have her, nor her father's ghost, nor the dim half-visualised thoughts and memories that rose like dark shadows in her soul and vanished again.She would believe in nothing save what she could see, listen to nothing that was not clear and simple before her.She was mistress of her own soul.

She did not, in this fashion, think things out for herself.To herself she simply expressed it that she was going to lead her own life, to earn her own living, to fight for herself; and that the sooner she escaped this gloomy, damp, and ill-tempered house the better.She would never say her prayers again; she would never read the Bible again to herself or any one else; she would never kneel on those hard chapel kneelers again; she would never listen to Mr.

Warlock's sermons again--once she had escaped.

Meanwhile she said nothing at all to herself about Martin Warlock, who was really at the root of the whole matter.

She began at once to take steps.Two years before this a lady had paid, with her sister, a short visit to St.Dreots and had taken a great liking to Maggie.They had made friends, and this lady, a Miss Katherine Trenchard, had begged Maggie to let her know if she came to London and needed help or advice.Miss Trenchard divided her life between London and a place called Garth in Roselands in Glebeshire, and Maggie did not know where she would be now--but, after some little hesitation, she wrote a letter, speaking of the death of her father and of her desire to find some work in London, and directed it to Garth.

Now of course she must post it herself--no allowing it to lie on the hall-table with old Martha to finger it and the aunts to speculate upon it and finally challenge her with its destiny.

On a bright evening when the house was as dark as a shut box and an early star, frightened at its irregular and lonely appearance, suddenly flashed like a curl of a golden whip across the sky, Maggie slipped out of the house.She realised, with a triumphant and determined nod of her head, that she had never been out alone in London before--a ridiculous and shameful fact! She knew that there was a pillar-box just round the corner, but because she had a hat upon her head and shoes upon her feet she thought that she might as well post it in the Strand, an EXCITING river of tempestuous sound into which she had as yet scarcely penetrated.She slipped out of the front door, then waited a moment, looking back at the silent house.No one stirred in their street; the noise of the Strand came up to her like wind beyond a valley.She must have felt, in that instant, that she was making some plunge into hazardous waters and she must have hesitated as to whether she would not spring back into the quiet house, lock and bolt the door, and never go out again.

But, after that one glance, she went forward.

She had never before in her life been on any errand alone, and at this evening hour the Strand was very full.She stood still clinging to the safe privacy of her own street and peering over into the blaze and quiver of the tumult.In the Strand end of her own street there were several dramatic agencies, a second-hand book and print shop with piles of dirty music in the barrow outside the window, a little restaurant with cold beef, an ancient chicken, hard-boiled eggs and sponge cakes under glass domes in the window; everywhere about her were dim doors, glimpses of twisting stairs, dusty windows and figures flitting up and down, in and out as though they were marionettes pulled by invisible strings to fulfil some figure.

These were all in the dusk of the side-street; a large draper's with shirts and collars and grinning wax boys in sailor suits caught with its front windows the Strand lamps.It was beside the shop that Maggie stood for an instant hesitating.She could see no pillar-box;she could see nothing save the streams of human beings, slipping like water between the banks of houses.